Shades of Gray
by Tess90
Summary: The color of depression. The color of bullets…


Disclaimer: I do not own the right to Criminal Minds or it's plot lines. Nor am I in any way, shape, or form affiliated with it's characters or actors...that would be cool if I were though.

A/N: This doesn't really have a specific time. Obviously it takes place after Elle is shot, but it could be before or after she leaves the BAU.

* * *

A whisper chased the fall leaves across the dewy morning lawn. It was the soft breath of the wind, a gentle sigh from Father Time, the tantalizing promise of Jack Frost.

Swirling amber, sienna, and pumpkin; crisp fall leaves rustled under their lost homes. Barren trees were the color of granite, grooved and rough. Inside their houses, people slept peacefully. Unaware and unaffected by the troubled dreams that plagued one woman.

She sat on a chair, staring out the window, trying to make sense of her life. Of who she was.

Elle absently ran her hand across her chest. Her fingers felt the smooth skin, worked their way to the scars that ruined the porcelain quality of it. They ruined more than that, she thought bitterly.

A strong surge of hate and confusion washed over her, draining her of happiness, raining pain. Big, angry droplets of it, that welted her, bruised her skin. She curled her legs to her chest and rested her chin on one knee.

Suddenly the phone rang. For a moment she hesitated.

She caught that moment of vulnerability, and mentally reprimanded herself for faltering.

It was a stupid move.

She grabbed the receiver and held it to her right ear.

"Hello."

"Hey."

It was Reid.

"What do you want?" she asked. She realized that she sounded harsher than she meant, but didn't care. She wasn't in the mood for talking.

"I- I…uh, just called to talk." He stammered.

The corners of Elle's mouth lifted every slightly upward, into the smallest of smiles. Reid was a good kid. He wasn't much of a guide in rough waters like these, but he had a good heart. He didn't know what she was going through. The smile vanished. No one knew. Hell, _she_ barely even knew what she was going through.

"Elle?" he asked meekly.

"It's 7:30 in the morning Reid."

"Yeah I just-" he stopped suddenly.

Elle sighed. "I'm fine. I don't feel like talking right now. I…I just got out of the shower." She lied.

"Oh. Well, Ok. Maybe some other time then."

"Yeah. Bye." She hung up without waiting for a response, and walked over to the window. She stared up at the sky. It was a dull, painted, gray; the color of bullets.

0)(0

Time seemed to fly by, in a hurry to end the day, only so it would begin again. Time was curious that way. It never stopped, never went back, always forward.

0)(0

At 2 O'clock Elle showered. By 2:45 she was in the car, and at 3:15 she pulled up outside an office building. She dropped some change into the parking meter and rode the elevator to floor six, where Dr. Dowd was located.

Dr. Dowd was a man with palid skin, deeply set eyes, and a beard to rival Moses. At forty-five, he was a successful therapist, respected by many. He played the violin, liked crosswords, and had once owned a pet sheep named Dale.

Elle exhaled deeply before swinging open the glass door, inscribed with Dowd's name, and walking into the reception area.

"Miss Greenaway! Dr. Dowd is ready for you." the secretary said. Her pale blue eyes glistened in the fluorescent light of the waiting room.

Elle nodded and, without saying a word, proceeded to Dr. Dowd's office. She wrapped her knuckles on the door sharply and entered without waiting any longer.

"Elle!" he said grandly, setting down his pen. He was seated at his oaken desk, in front of him, a crossword. "How are you today?"

Elle took a place on one of the brown leather chairs.

"Fine."

"Good. That's great." He stroked his beard as he rounded the desk, taking the chair opposite her. "So..." he glanced at her briefly, then made a show of twiddling his thumbs. "Have you done anything lately?"

"Like?"

"Oh, I don't know. How about writing? Have you done any writing?"

"No. I don't like writing." she answered shortly, knowing where this was leading.

"Have you...talked to anyone?" he tried approaching the subject casually. But Elle saw right through it. She knew what he was getting at. She knew where he was leading her.

"I'm talking to you now, aren't I?"

He chuckled quietly, shifting slightly in his chair. "Yes. Yes I would say you are."

Elle did not laugh with him, nor did she return the smile. She sat there tiredly, one leg crossed over the other, waiting for him to continue.

" Have you watched any television recently? There's this wonderful show I've discovered. I forget exactly what it's called but it's about this young mother and her daughter and they-"

"Can we cut the crap?" she demanded very suddenly.

Dowd did not say anything. He furrowed his brow, buried his hand in his beard and studied her. The man was a chameleon. One mintue he could be buddy-buddy, smiling and cracking jokes. The next, he was psychoanalyzing you from behind muted green eyes, brooding like a mad scientist.

"Are you feeling OK?" he asked.

"Yeah, I already told you I'm fine."

"There are rings under your eyes, Elle." he said. "You haven't been sleeping well." He cleared his throat. "The nightmares are back, I'm assuming?"

"Nightmares, flashbacks…everything." she said, rubbing her chest, absentmindedly.

"That's not good. Not at all." He mumbled, more to himself than to her. "Have you talked to anyone about them?"

Elle shook her head. "Not really."

"That might help, you know." he suggested.

Elle shook her head again. "I can't. I wouldn't know what to say."

"You are a profiler, Elle. I'm sure once or twice you've talked to people, to victims, asking them what they went though. Have you not?"

She didn't answer, but he interpreted her silence.

"It's the same, really. Only _you _are the victim. You tell them that things can get better, right? That they can only go up from here. The worst is over and you have friends and family who care for you, and right now they are all very concerned about you. And that is all very true. You were _shot_, Elle. You died." he laughed, a strange, braying, morbid kind of laughter, that was reserved specifically for mad genuises and psychopaths. At this very moment, Elle was not completely sure which of the two Dr. Dowd was.

"You DIED!" he exclaimed loudly. "You were dead!" His voice suddenly dropped significantly, and his tone became serious once again. "But you are still _alive_. You are here. You are well and breathing and _alive!_ But you _were_ dead and that, of course, entitles you to pout and mope."

Elle resented his words. She did not _mope _and she did not _pout._ He ignored her angry glare and continued.

"Elle. I can't tell you when you are going to get better. I can't tell you if you _are_ going to get better. That is up to you. I can't decide for you whether or not your life is worth living. But you can."

She bit her lip in an effort to stop her tears from spilling. She hated that man for killing her, she hated Hotchner for letting him kill her, she hated Dowd for making her cry, and she hated the world for simply being the world.

0)(0

The land of the free and the home of the brave. A place where people could be killed in their own homes. Elle was one of those people. She had been killed.

She had been given a second chance.

People who experience death, or something like it, tend to embrace their second time around. Life is new again. Everything is beautiful. These people…are fools. Through their jubilation at having another chance, they forgot to see the things that Elle saw. The horrors, the crimes, the evil, the hate. A close call. It meant, to them, that they weren't dead. To Elle, it simply meant she was still alive. Still around to suffer the sins and the ignorance of man. Still here to pay the price for evils she didn't commit, to face those sinners every day. And with every day, every breath, it was like a sharp pain in her side. A knife slowly twisting, killing her, prolonging death. She wondered why she hadn't died. Maybe that would've been easier.

Elle climbed into the shower and turned on the hot water. The bathroom mirror soon became opaque, foggy with steam. Elle undressed away from it. She refused to look in the mirror. Looking meant seeing, and she didn't want to see what was there.

The hot water helped soothe her, it cleansed her mind and rinsed her skin of the day. She washed with bodywash that smelled of coconut, but no matter how hard she scrubbed, a feeling remained present. Clear, and very much alive inside of her. It disgusted her and scared her at the same time.

She could feel a hand reaching into her wound. It was inside of her- violating her. No one should have to endure that. Not her. Not after all she did…all she tried to do.

Elle turned the tap off and stepped out of the shower. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she reached for a towel. Her skin was rubbed raw.

She dried off in her room and put on clean clothes. She still felt dirty.

_Tainted_.

She walked to the living room and retrieved a pad of paper and a pen. Her gun was on the table, and she sat next to it. Within arms reach.

She paused to think, and then began to write:

Dear Jason,

I don't know how to say this, but I'll try. I can't do this anymore. You've always been such a great influence in my life. You've taught me so much and for that, I love you.

I want to thank everyone. You, Hotch, Derek, Reid and J.J. You guys are the best friends I've ever known, and are all truly amazing people.I love you all. But it's not enough. I can't do this anymore. Not after him. The way he killed me. I may have lived, but at this point, it doesn't mean much. There's just too much bullshit going on in this world. Too many monsters. I'm only one person. You're only people. We aren't superheroes. We can't stop them all.

I'm doing this because I need to. Because I feel like I'm living in a bad dream, without hope, or love. It's just a shade of gray. It's the color of bullets. I hate it. I'm doing it because I can't think of how I can go anywhere from here. When his hand was inside me, it felt…wrong. Like he stole something from me. Robbed me of…my innocence? Maybe. Maybe something more.

You should know one thing: This wasn't your fault. Don't blame yourself, or anyone else. Blame him…or me. I was stupid- I let my guard down. I won't do it anymore. I promise.

I just can't do this…

I love you.

-Elle

She allowed a tear to slide down her cheek. It ran across her lips, tasting of salt. She looked at the gun sitting before her.

Bland, gray, unremarkable.

It didn't seem to be dangerous. She picked it up and stared it in the face. Looking down the barrel was something completely different.

She was reminded of that day. The day her life ended. It was weird, she though. How one day a person can beg and fight for their life, and then turn around and end it.

What would've happened if she had drawn her weapon first? If she had stayed at the BAU? If her dad had been alive? There were too many ifs.

A thought occurred to her as she cocked the gun, her finger resting on the trigger.

He wins.

If she pulled that trigger, he would win. He would have killed her.

Her finger quivered in its place, her arm began shaking as she was wracked with silent sobs. They quaked her body.

Then, she released her grip on the gun, set it back on the table.

She wasn't going to give that bastard the satisfaction of winning.

She wins.

He was dead, and rotting, and cold.

She was sitting right here.

She won.

Elle picked up the note and tore it in half, tears streaming down her face. She crumpled the papers into a ball and threw it. She didn't know where, just threw it as hard as she could.

She sat and rocked back and forth, moaning with misery. Pain, she figured, was better than being numb. Not feeling anything. Pain, at least indicated that she might feel good again; she might love again.

She sniffled back the tears and wiped them from her cheeks and eyes.

Reaching for the phone, she quickly dried the rest of her tears and dialed it.

"Reid? You still wanna talk?"

A whisper chased the fall leaves across the dewy evening lawn. It was the soft breath of the wind, a gentle sigh from Father Time, the tantalizing promise of Jack Frost.


End file.
